


Next To Me

by Lori_S21



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Car sex and feelings, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-23
Updated: 2018-04-23
Packaged: 2019-04-26 23:08:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,749
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14412486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lori_S21/pseuds/Lori_S21
Summary: It feels like love. It feels like dependency and freedom. It is terrifying and exhilarating all at once.Paul 'Jesus' Rovia and Daryl Dixon share a passionate moment, but that pesky old, heartbreaking reality keeps getting in the way.





	Next To Me

**Author's Note:**

> **Tried to write porn and ended up with a whole mess of feelings and a long love note to their relationship. It's a little how I'd imagine their relationship might work out on the show, if they were allowed to be explicitly romantically involved (only less PG-13!). Do let me know what you think please and thanks.**

It feels like this every time, yet somehow he always manages to make himself to forget. He fools himself into thinking he doesn’t need this, he can go without it, stay distant and safe. But when Paul is back in his arms, hands on skin, eyes meeting his, he feels it. He feels the bone deep connection, the primal need to get closer, the rush of heat only he can evoke yet also soothe. He feels as if he’ll go crazy if he can’t touch him but also completely at ease in his own body for once. He is breathless but somehow truly able to breathe deeply in his presence, a freedom he never knew he so desperately lacked. To feel your heart race gracelessly even as the sight of him releases a tension that has been steadily building in his absence for weeks. It makes complete sense and yet no sense at all. To be so restlessly peaceful.

It feels like love. It feels like dependency and freedom. It is terrifying and exhilarating all at once.

He eases his index and middle fingers back into Paul’s body, pressing in torturously slow as the smaller man writhes in his lap, gasping hot breaths against his lips. There’s not enough air or room in the pickup truck which is actually kind of perfect. They are face to face, mouths moving idly against each other’s as though they have all the time in the world, to taste, to feel. For all they know, they have. No living thing is going to look in at them on this country road and see them anyway. It’s their turn to go on a supply run, and they haven’t been alone like this in so long.

The setting sun casts a fiery halo around Paul’s hair and he is beautiful. Daryl allows himself to acknowledge this. Paul like this is beautiful. Coming apart in his lap, squirming against the unrelenting pressure of blunt but clever fingers as Daryl works him open. He knows exactly where to rub, how long to press against the most sensitive places, how much Paul can take, how to get him to make that noise again. He moans against Daryl’s mouth and he swallows the sound. They’re not really kissing, rather mouthing desperately, breathing each other in. Lost in the sensation of the other, their skin, their taste. Paul’s hands squeeze the muscles of his arms, holding him in place. He knows this body as well as his own, can play it in ways he never imagined he could do to another human being. He gets to have this, when he stops being so blind and stubborn. 

He gradually withdraws his fingers, slick with vaseline, before pushing them in again, making sure to drag over that perfect spot that has Paul shaking. He grips his waist, hand slipping under his shirt, skin hot and smooth against his fingers. The Hilltop scout feels so small in his arms, his slightness a deception, hiding all that trained strength. It’s exhilarating, getting to have him like this. Paul wriggles in his lap and Daryl tightens his grip on his hip, refusing to quicken the pace until Paul is stifling a sob. He presses his head against Daryl’s and groans.

“Daryl, please…” Paul slurs and he never could deny him anything. Not when he says his name like that. It’s incredible, it’s obscene, that anyone could ever feel that way about him…

Paul’s pants and underwear lie forgotten on the floor, bare legs straddling Daryl’s fully clothed form. His black cotton shirt pools around the pale skin of his muscular thighs and the image alone is enough to excite Daryl to ridiculous levels. He runs a hand through Paul’s hair, pushing it back so he can take him in. The blown pupils and flushed cheeks, shapely lips swollen from stolen kisses. He keeps his other hand moving more rhythmically now, buried deep in Paul until the other man is imitating the tempo, hips moving with every thrust, pushing back eagerly, riding the waves of pleasure. He watches his expression carefully, adjusting his hand movements to make it better, to make it so good for him.

Paul surges forward for a kiss, movements hard and graceless that Daryl returns with a desperation he only feels when with this man. Paul’s hands trail up his arms until they are locked around his neck, reeling him in. When they separate, he pulls Paul back firmly by the hair, scooping it to once side so he can taste the salt skin of his neck, graze his teeth over the pulse point, concluding with a lingering kiss to the throat, the way he knows Paul particularly likes. It’s like a new kind of hunting; observing, the adrenaline, following your instincts, anticipating the moves of others. He buries his face in the warmth of Paul’s throat, breathes him in, willing his heartbeat to even out. He takes in his scent mixed with the faintly flowery aroma of his hair, remembering how he’d teased his taste in shampoo and Paul’s fake-stern response (“Can’t be fussy in the apocalypse, Dixon. You’re just jealous.”). It makes his heart lurch. As do Paul’s next words, slurred against his own hair as he presses into him, harder, deeper.

“Thought you couldn’t do this anymore.” He sighs, shifting in his grasp. “Oh God…”

It’s not a question, the words breathless with a slight challenge in them, as always. Paul wouldn’t take shit from anyone. And did he truly say that? Was he ever that stupid? That proud, that naive? 

“M’sorry…” He murmurs into the warmth of him, words muffled. No excuses, no lies, just the truth. 

“Sssh…” Paul hushes him, pressing small kisses to his lips, brushing hair out of his eyes so he cannot hide. “Not a guilt trip.” He soothes reassuringly as if Daryl doesn’t already know. That isn’t Paul’s style. What you see is what you get, once you get to know him anyway, seeing past the Jesus persona. His bluntness at times could almost match Daryl’s, though he somehow managed to be much more charming with it. 

He’s trying to clear the air, words at odds with his actions because he’s pushing up, lifting himself up and off Daryl's fingers which no, that’s no good at all… Daryl is cupping his ass, trying to draw him back until his hands slide down Daryl’s shirt, trailing over his chest, his nipples, his sensitive stomach, finding their way to his lap so he can latch onto his zipper, undo Daryl’s pants and that is something he can definitely get onboard with. Stow away any heartbreaking conversations until later, until _after_ , because he knows Paul won’t be able to let that go. And how long could this last anyway? Even without Daryl’s self destructive tendencies, how could he possibly hang onto something this good, with the world the way it is? 

He’s done more things with Paul than he can spell, laughed with him, hunted with him, seen him naked, fell asleep with him, kissed damn near every part of him. He’s also lied to him, fought with him, screamed at him, nearly come to blows with him, pushed him away. Because this, between them, it terrifies him. It elates him. It consumes him completely. Who wouldn’t be afraid of that, of _losing_ that?

Few things make him feel worse than when they are at odds with each other. The look of hurt in Paul’s eyes after their last fight… But Paul has no idea. Daryl knows he'll never feel this way about anyone again. He couldn’t possibly have anything left to give so he just takes in the brilliant blue of those eyes, how they look at him like that, something soft mixed with exasperation, lust and defiance and he doesn't know which turns him on more. So he just kisses him, all hardness with teeth and tongue, hands roaming under his shirt, trailing over smooth skin, to his thighs, squeezing appreciatively until Paul is practically purring. He bucks up into him as Paul grinds down twice as hard, their moans filling the cramped space like something tangible. 

He pushes up, lifting the smaller man so Paul can shove his jeans down his legs in a tangle, clothes pushed aside just enough to fuck and Daryl cannot breathe with just how much he wants this. Paul in his lap, righteous and beautiful, hands sliding down his body seeking, searching… 

With some awkward manoeuvring Paul somehow manages to wrap a slick hand around him, clearly having successfully located the vaseline. He tries not to groan too obscenely, to not let his eyes roll back. It’s too much and he doesn’t want to finish like some awkward teen (he still blushes to think of their first time though Paul said he hadn’t minded, had been flattered and literally jumped on him for, in his own words, _‘Round Two: ding-ding-ding!’_ ). He focuses on the absurd to make it last. How if he moans too loudly, some dead dude may come by and literally gobble him up (most definitely not in the sexy way). The way his jeans still keep getting in the way and how it makes Paul huff as he does his best to rearrange them, fighting down a grin in the process. Briefly, they are a disaster of knocking elbows and sharp knees and Daryl swears he almost swallows some of Paul’s hair in the process, but soon the warmth of Paul’s hand is back on him. And he’s kissing the triumphant smirk right off the scout’s face, both fighting down helpless, irrational giggles between stolen kisses. 

When he pulls back, he sees Paul’s darkened eyes drinking in his expression, one hand on his shoulder, the other pulling him to pieces, preparing him. The younger man tilts his head to one side as he watches him with consideration and confidence. He loves him like this, image seared into his memories. Daryl bites his lip against the flood of heat down low, the tightness of his grip, the slight twist of that talented hand. When a thumb slips over the head a moan is torn right out of him without a hint of embarrassment. Only then does Paul stop. They are ready. 

He removes his hand and places it flat against the car roof, bracing himself in a way that is fluid and graceful, the invitation unbearably sexy. Daryl grips Paul’s hips tightly, sliding under, positioning himself with one hand, gripping one of Paul’s cheeks with the other, spreading him, opening. He has no idea how they’ll make this work, only that they somehow always do, and he’s desperate to find out. They’ll manage, bodies fitting together, sweaty and desperate, always in a rush. So he tries to take it slow, using his cock to tease his rim. Paul is practically panting in his hands, moaning encouragement. He throws his head back and Daryl can’t help but lick a line up that gorgeous throat, surprising him by pushing in at the same time. He savours every detail. The slight yelp from Paul causing him to slow and take it steady when he really wants to pound into him. The way their breath is knocked out of both of them like they’re both surprised, like it’s the first time. How Paul bites his lip as he adjusts. The indescribable tightness and heat of Paul’s body, the closest to heaven he’s ever going to get. He clenches both hands against Paul’s hips, surely causing bruises, waits.

Paul has all the leverage. He’s pushing down and clenching and Daryl can’t breathe, can’t move through fear of finishing too soon. But Paul needs time to adjust too. He presses his forehead against Daryl’s, eyes closed, damp red lips parted and they just breathe, deep, shuddering breaths, humid air bringing little relief. He finally loosens his grip enough to move to Paul’s lower back, to rub the slick skin there, to reassure. He tenderly traces the ridges of Paul’s spine, counting, focusing on anything but the sensation of where they are joined. He wants to make this last. Why does every time feel like the first, managing to take his breath away like this, feeling raw, vulnerable, incredible?

He finds his way to his hair, threads his fingers through its softness as they remain suspended in the moment. Paul presses his face against his, one arm looped around his shoulder, facial hair rasping against Daryl’s. He closes his eyes, and takes in the feel of it. He cups Paul’s cheek, beard scratching, holding him as though he is precious, for one moment.

But when Paul moves, when he rises, tightness gripping him, making him groan, his eyes flash open, finding Paul’s. He loves it like this, face to face, so close he can see every minute reaction in Paul’s expression, getting lost in the feeling of making someone feel good for a change. The trust and the want in those eyes, directed his way never fails to undo him.

And Paul seems to want to drag it out, moving so slowly, mouth against his, hands tender, moving to his hair. They are holding each other through it, even as Paul rides him sinuously, the sight utterly mesmerising, hair dampening at his temples, pupils blown, practically panting as he squirms in Daryl’s lap and it’s almost too much. Paul is _his_ , for now, he is his.

He’s practically wheezing with every rise and fall of Paul’s body, every pull towards that stark line of pleasure. His hips slip through his fingers as the pace quickens. Paul’s hair bounces around his shoulders and he swears he can feel he car moving with every thrust and jolt. He grips his ass, pulling him back down and they share a frantic kiss.

This is them. This is right. He curses under his breath, angles his hips just so, and is rewarded with a low whine in Paul’s throat. So he pushes up, does it again, slower but as deep as he can go, shaking with the effort. He holds Paul’s hips in place until that face is lighting up, on the verge of falling to pieces, getting so very close. He knows him too well. They’ve come so far since that first awkward kiss.

-

It had all kick started with a bad dream.

They had gone on a supply run together, went far away from the Hilltop - too far. They had barely known each other back then, not really. Rick knew that they made a fairly efficient team and so paired them off quite often. Daryl didn't mind; Paul knew what he was doing. He could be fairly decent company when he wasn’t winding Daryl up about the importance of haircare and teaching him ninja moves, or pestering Daryl to take him hunting ( _“Flirting, Daryl.”_ Paul had later explained with an eye roll). He was also a pretty good listener, not judgemental, very calm, and for some reason Daryl didn’t mind talking to him. He still didn’t really know him though. Only that the little scout was wily as a fox, and that in spite of this knowledge, he was pretty sure he could trust him with his life. He had stayed behind at the Sanctuary after all, went out on a limb to bust out a man he barely knew. You couldn’t just forget something like that.

He also knew he was graceful and lethal at the same time. He’d seen him fight, all precise and fluid like a dancer. It was impressive and oddly beautiful, he could grudgingly admit. He knew his eyes were the crystal blue of a warm summer sky. He knew he had a wicked sense of humour, and that apparently Daryl was one of the few people who could tell when he wasn’t being completely earnest, eyes sparkling with mischief as he nodded with grave sincerity at some pompous speech. He knew that Carol, Morgan and Maggie liked him, and that really meant a lot. He knew he could be kind, brave and undeniably reckless when it came to looking out for the people he cared about.

He guesses that even back then, he’d been keeping tabs on Paul _‘my friends used to call me Jesus’_ Rovia, even if he wasn’t completely conscious of it at the time. But he never knew just how much he trusted him until he fell asleep in his presence. Sleep in itself was an unusual enough act for Daryl, but in front of someone who wasn’t quite family yet whilst on a run? Unheard of. But that was exactly what had happened.

They’d gone too far away from Hilltop for their fuel supply to cope with a return journey. It hadn’t been a particularly fruitful trip, apart from a decent cadge of canned goods that wouldn’t last very long. As it had been a mainly agricultural based area, they’d thought they could have crossed off a few farming supplies from Eugene’s list, with no such luck. They had made a decent team, watching each other’s backs, taking down the odd walker whilst the other pillaged the area of supplies. Paul hadn’t seemed to mind Daryl’s non-verbal way of communicating, nor be intimidated by his borderline surly responses. He chattered away happily enough for the both of them anyway. 

But then there had been the herd. Just passing through but large enough to make them uneasy and keep them pinned down.. They took shelter in a dilapidated motel in the smallest hamlet that could even qualify as a village. By the time it was almost clear, thunderous groans turning into the odd walker gargle, darkness had fallen. And so they had decided to hunker down for the night. Take turns on watch. Daryl had protested of course, he was always too wired to sleep outside of the Hilltop those days, but Paul had insisted he get his three hours. _“Only fair,”_ he’d said at the time, nodding to a stripped bare mattress with a smile that hadn’t made Daryl’s stomach flip. He glowered but gave in.

He doesn’t remember the nightmare. It was probably the usual, a parade of walkers tearing into him, each mangled face belonging to someone he’d known and loved. His mama. Merle. Beth. Carl. Even Rick, Michonne and Carol thrown in for good measure. The only thing he remembers vividly is waking to the feel of Paul Rovia holding him, one hand soft but firm on his bicep, other cradling his head. 

“Hey… It’s okay, you’re dreaming. It’s me, remember? You’re alright…” Soft words, false reassurances even as Daryl sleepily took a swing for him, still holding on as he easily dodged the blow. His eyes bright were even in the unfamiliar gloom, grounding him. Paul’s hair fell over Daryl’s face as he struggled into a sitting position, Paul’s hands on his shoulders, bracing him.

“Hey! It’s alright…” Voice gentle and comforting as ever, expression kind and Daryl’s heartbeat didn’t slow, aggression and adrenaline morphing into something else, something that made him restless, uncomfortable, desperate for Paul not to pull away. The curve of those lips and his steady touch… He wanted to believe those words. That everything would be alright. He remembered thinking that Paul was dangerous. Because he made him want things. Because he made him hope.

He wanted to push him away for that, take a swing for him in his embarrassment. Paul’s body tensed as though he could tell, but Daryl did neither of those things. Instead, heart in his mouth, hands shaking, he had reached out and pushed back that curtain of hair so gently, the man didn't even flinch. He didn’t let his hand drop, had guilty thumbed along the hair at his jawline, trying not to meet his eyes but it was impossible, he was hooked, the second Paul had slightly leaned into his touch. 

And then they were kissing. As if it were that easy, that natural, and he’s still a little fuzzy on how exactly that had happened. One moment, there were those eyes, exuding fondness and comfort and then he was dragging him closer. For one moment, Paul had looked like he didn’t know whether Daryl was going to kiss him or slug him, but he let him all the same. He held Paul’s face as though he were something precious, begging him to _‘let me, just let me’…_ even if he didn’t understand what he was asking for.

He didn’t know what he was doing and he’s sure it was terrible even if Paul denies it to this day. All confused eagerness, ending up with Paul in his lap, fingers in his hair, younger man breathing reassurances into his skin, sharing soft smiles between kisses. He let Daryl explore his body without demands, murmuring encouragement and it had broken him. The way Paul kissed, so sure and seemingly eager for Daryl’s touch, for Daryl’s embrace. He’d ended up on top of Paul on that mattress, pressing down, body to body, trying new things that made his breath come fast. 

They had all night. 

It had been the first encounter of many. Paul, the patient teacher, waiting for those shy smiles and intense stares that were Daryl’s way of flirting. He showed him new things, made him feel so good, made him want in a way he’d never really cared to explore before. Growing more confident every time, stealing moments between chores and conflicts, needing more and more of each other. At least, that’s how it felt to Daryl, like Paul was a fix he needed more of. But that was disingenuous. Paul wasn’t a drug, wasn’t bad for him in that sense. He was a light in his life. Like a pat on the shoulder from Rick, a hug from Carol or a smile from Judith, though in a very different way. He became one of those few things that made him keep on fighting. 

It wasn’t always easy. Daryl’s nature made him pull away, occasionally lash out. How could one invest in a relationship, give oneself over completely, in a world like this? There was only one way to say goodbye and he didn't think he could ever put a bullet in Paul’s head. No. It was stupid to dwell on that, on what may be, and he tries to remember that, every day. But even Paul took a long while to open up, so secretive due to this painful past. They’d traded histories eventually, Daryl sharing more of himself than he ever had with anyone else, raw and open. Paul had traced his scars, kissed each one, then later, made love to him so slowly in a way that had utterly wrecked Daryl. 

There were many fights. Blowouts about taking unnecessary risks (Paul sneaking off), or keeping things from each other (often Rick’s fault, asking Daryl to do something morally dubious). They just had very different approaches to life at times. Paul had such easy confidence, was so friendly and… experienced. it could leave Daryl insecure at times. Their outlooks were so different. Daryl would always shoot first, Paul never would, not anymore, and it would spill into their personal lives, causing blazing rows. Sometimes this was resolved with furious make up sex, all teeth and nails and punishing pace. It wasn’t healthy, but it was far from the worst thing that had happened to them, especially when it ended with stunned, breathless laughter more often than not. 

They could drive each other crazy at times, but he hopes, he _really_ hopes, that Paul can see past all that, that he knows how he makes Daryl feel. That he somehow understands what he means to him.

-

 

The pace becomes ragged, frantic. Paul’s hand denting the roof, pressing down just right as Daryl bucks up, jolting his body. Paul murmurs praise between moans, encouraging Daryl to move faster, go harder, even though he has most of the control, riding him, image hypnotic and ridiculously hot. He bucks up as hard as he can as Paul slams back down, faster, harder, deeper. Paul grips either side of Daryl’s face, kisses him messily, a kiss between lovers and just like that, Daryl finishes, orgasm sharp and unexpected, groaning loudly into Paul’s mouth as his hips twitch forward one last time.

The world whites out as his hand conjoined with Paul’s, bringing his lover off together - almost businesslike, as though Daryl’s pleasure was the point - spilling onto his shirt. He doesn't mind. Paul slumps forward onto him, buries his face in Daryl’s chest, taking heaving breaths, crushing most of the air out his his lungs. Daryl’s stunned mind has him running his hands over Paul’s back, shirt damp with sweat and he wishes it were bare skin. He wishes there were more time.

“Wow,” He thinks he hears Paul mutter into his chest and he can’t help but laugh a little at that, jostling Paul in the process. That's one word for it.

When Paul blearily peers up at him, the corners of his mouth pull up, eyes sparkling indignantly. “Cocky.” He mock-scolds, eyebrows raised before flopping back down, limbs loose and pliant. 

Daryl’s hands run down the sides of his body, cup his ass as he shifts minutely, pulling out as gently as possible. Paul hisses as he does so. When he traces where they were joined with his thumb, slipping as it circles, it causes Paul to sigh into Daryl’s neck from the overstimulation (he’d once confessed to Daryl how much he liked it).

Paul shivers and he just holds him, Paul sprawled on top, peering up, a ridiculously handsome mess even after all that. Seconds tick by and they try to ignore words unsaid as their bodies cool, and heart rates slow, catching their breath.

Their eyes meet and he is stunning. “Paul, I…” He trails off, confession on the tip of his tongue, followed by the all familiar panic and terror. If he tells him how he feels, this will make it real, make him vulnerable. It would be like daring the universe to take this away from him, like it has anyone he has ever loved.

“Daryl.” Paul interrupts, searching his expression. He pushes back Daryl’s hair and there is nowhere to hide even if he wanted to. “I know. It’s okay, you don’t have to say it.”

He swallows hard, cradling Paul’s face in his hands. The calm understanding in his expression never fails to wreck him. “But I do y’know?” He says, voice ragged, breaking. How else can he make him see? “Don’t matter what I said. I do. Can’t stop. I tried…” This was quite a speech, he realised, as stilted as it was. _I tried to stop loving you._ Daryl felt so nervous that Paul wouldn’t understand but he always could read between his lines. The younger man leans forward, places a kiss on his lips, chaste, lingering and filled with deep feeling.

“You kind of got me good too, Dixon.” He whispers against his lips, nuzzling as he shrugs lightly. Daryl runs his hands over Paul’s body, his miracle right here and now, heart thumping hard.

Paul’s eyes are very bright as he presses kisses to his lips, his cheeks, his forehead. They lay together. Daryl closes his eyes, feels Paul’s sigh against his skin. His words are so quiet, he could ignore them if he wished. “What are we going to do?” 

And that’s just it isn’t it?

They spring apart when something thuds against the door, the unmistakable sound of a hand slapping against glass. Then there are the groans of the undead, a decayed, uncomprehending face peering in, understanding nothing. 

They both stare at the walker for a moment, bubble burst. 

“That’s a mood killer,” Paul whispers, post-coital warmth draining from his expression. He ducks his head and Daryl may be imagining the sheen in his eyes. It isn't fair, that this is their reality, that this is the daily reminder of what may lie in store. That this is what keeps pulling them apart. 

Paul scrambles into the passenger seat and he suddenly wants to pull him back so badly. Blood rushes back into his legs as Paul grabs his clothes from the floor, hastily pulling his jeans back on.

The distance is already unbearable, but he has to do what he must. 

“I got this,” Daryl says hollowly, reaching for his knife, slipping further away from Paul.


End file.
